


Let this be a lesson to all of us

by talk_less_smilemore



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Pirate, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-04
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26283586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/talk_less_smilemore/pseuds/talk_less_smilemore
Summary: "If you cross me," Andrew warns, "If you destroy my city or give my Den up to the Butcher, if you even think ab—""You'll kill me, I know." Neil rolls his eyes. "I've heard that one before."A pirate/assassin AU set in Havana, circa 1700s. Andrew just wants to do his job. Neil won't stop getting in the way. He's hiding more than it originally appears.
Relationships: Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 9
Kudos: 86
Collections: AFTG Big Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is for the AFTG big bang! Thank you so so much to Fornavn (find her on tumblr!), who provided the AMAZING art on very short notice, and also leahlisabeth (also on tumblr) who patiently beta-ed this entire fic. It wouldn't be possible without them!

Andrew swears once, an awful, vicious word, and then he starts running.

The Butcher's guards are quicker to react than he had anticipated; as he sprints towards the shelter of a low building, bullets blink into and out of existence next to his head, marking a perfectly straight line across the brick wall opposite. Andrew would likely be impressed, if his life weren't currently dependent on running away from those particular bullets, and, more importantly, the guards firing them.

"Come on, Renee, you're supposed to be dealing with this," he mutters to himself, drawing his hood up and twisting nimbly down another path as more guards rush in to help. Climbing any of these buildings would be suicide; if Renee has been compromised, he'll be shot down in seconds by El Carnicero's snipers.

There is a clear path to the holding cells from this angle, but Andrew still hesitates. He would quite like to get Kevin out of this situation alive, yes, but that does require being alive himself. As of this moment, Renee hasn't fired a single shot, and he's still being hunted down, the shouts of the guards growing ever closer. Why is he here? If Kevin were really that good an assassin, he wouldn't have been caught in the first place. He probably deserves to be in here, and Andrew probably deserves the chance to retire.

Ooh, Aaron would like that one, if he were still alive.

The thought of his brother, and the momentary break in pursuit from the guards, forces Andrew to take a moment to himself. He steps back and rests against the bars of some sort of animal cage, breathing heavily. It has been a long few days; Aaron hasn't been on his mind quite as frequently as he normally might. Andrew's one downfall, the hamartia that's going to end his tragedy, settles back down on his shoulders: he's holding a grudge, but he doesn't know who it's against.

Aaron had been... more carefree than most people who are part of this life of secrecy and murder. He had killed as he pleased, drawn attention to himself in public spaces, provoked the wrong people at the wrong times. Andrew had warned him, but he hadn’t been able to stop Aaron running his mouth off to the wrong contact in the Church, and he definitely hadn’t been able to stop him being imprisoned when said contact turned out to be one of El Carnicero’s men. He’d tried, of course he had tried, but there had been too many guards, and Aaron’s loud mouth had lost them more assassins than necessary. In the end, after months of imprisonment, Aaron had been sent off to Australia with the British colonisers, and his ship had been boarded by pirates. Andrew had heard, many months later, that Aaron hadn't made it; after all, his silver tongue had never really done him any good when he was at the mercy of more powerful men.

Nicky had cried for days on end. He'd begged and begged Andrew to leave the Order with him, to go to New York and do some good in the world, but Andrew could never quite bring himself to abandon his little inner circle of Foxes. He'd never admit it out loud, but truth be told, some parts of himself—the parts that aren't bored or full of blinding rage or addicted to substances or emotionally unmovable—those parts are still grieving for Aaron, and he doubts they're ever going to stop.

The Foxes are a substitute for Aaron. Everything he does is a substitute for Aaron. Long nights spent lying awake staring at the ceiling of the Den or his own office within the inner circle's Foxhole have prompted—forced?—Andrew to conclude that actually, he doesn't particularly care whether or not he finds and kills Aaron's murderer. He understands the choices that Aaron made, yes, but he is also familiar with the ways of pirates, and there was nothing he could do at the time. This life, whatever it may be, is an endless hunt for a fulfilment that Andrew might never find. Even so, losing a brother—losing a twin, even—has ripped out something within Andrew that he's never going to get back. Mirrors don't just show his own reflection anymore. When he speaks, it isn't just his voice. When he kills, he isn't always looking at his own hands. More often than not, something in him feels fundamentally broken.

No: Andrew knows, logically, that he couldn't save his brother then, not from his own stupidity, but he can at least find Kevin now, and hope that rights at least one of the thousands of wrongs he's done in blind grief.

"Do you mind? That's my door," a bored voice snaps from behind him, and Andrew turns swiftly to identify it. A man is standing at the bars of the door, which Andrew can now see does not lead into an animal cage, but a holding cell, completely separate from the rest. "Yeah. You shouldn't really be here, you know, mate."

From beneath his hood, Andrew stares. This man is a mess. His hair is an awful mop of reddish-orange curls and sitting haphazardly on top is a leather tricorn that flops down uselessly over his eyes. Every inch of him is covered in scars. His accent is unplaceable: it's mostly American, but he speaks with British mannerisms. Rough, but imperial: even in a cage, he thinks he holds the power in this situation, and it makes some small part of Andrew chant Aaron Aaron Aaron. As the man approaches Andrew where he's standing a little to the side of the door, he moves his shoulders in that swaggering way so common to—

Pirates. This man is a pirate.

"I don't like pirates," Andrew tilts his head to the side slightly, glimpsing a brief flash of blue beneath the abominable tricorn. "Don't tell me where I should and shouldn't be." Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "And your hat looks like a dead rat."

"Thank you." The pirate seems amused by this. "I wouldn't say I'm overly fond of assassins, either."

Andrew can't help scoffing at this one's audacity. "You're the one in the cell, _cabrón._ I can leave you here to rot in your own juices."

"Great!" he feigns excitement. "You're going to die as soon as you step into that clearing to rescue your little friend. El Carnicero—is that what you lot call him?—has people everywhere."

Well, he has a point. It's very likely that without Renee covering him, Andrew is going to run straight out into a swarm of guards. Wymack always used to say that he had a bit of a deathwish. That man knew people better than they knew themselves. He’d been a good friend and a better mentor.

"Look," the pirate continues unabashedly, making a broad gesture. "I know my way around these kinds of places and I've been in here long enough to guess where they're looking for you. Let me out and I'll take you to your mate without the added concern of imminent death."

Some knowledge is better than none, Andrew reasons with a sigh. He glances quickly around their little alley, double-checking that the guards haven't found them yet, and then he flicks a lockpick into his hand and starts the work of criminals on the door.

"Ah, he's doing it," the pirate seems surprised. "You lot don't talk much, do you? I thought you'd appreciate this more. Also, mate," and he adds a touch of sarcasm that spites Andrew deep in his soul, "you might want to hurry it up a little. El Carnicero will be back soon. Within the next year, at least. I'm sure of it."

Andrew snarls a brief, "Shut up."

"Oh, and he's vicious, too." The pirate snorts, falling back against the opposite wall to give Andrew some space. "How did your man get captured, anyway? Do all of your little acolytes wear black like you? Then surely they blend into the shadows. I prefer to just walk in and kill people, myself. I think it has a dangerous sort of charm. Makes me feel seen in all of the chaos. And I get to dress however I like. And," he smiles, a cold and unforgiving thing, "when I do get caught, I get my own little cell. Free food and everything, though I've got to moan about the beds. Ain’t that neat?"

"Are you deaf?" Andrew spits. "I said shut up."

"Ha!" The pirate huffs another half-laugh, the corners of his mouth tilting up under that stupid, stupid hat. Andrew hates it. But he'd said he knew his way around the guards, and Renee is still MIA, so he's running more than a little short on options at the moment.

Without further delay, Andrew has the door open and the pirate's jacket scrunched up in his hands. "If you betray me here," he growls, "I will kill you without a second thought."

The other man changes, then. His cocky smile doesn't physically shift but it loses every ounce of warmth and humour it had carried so easily seconds before. The spark in those icy blue eyes disappears. He looks... hungry, with all of those scars and bruises. It makes Andrew want to shiver, to run, but his interrogation tactics are far more advanced than that.

"I wouldn’t trust me, either," the pirate says in a low voice. Just like that, the situation has passed; he's back to arrogance and stupid hats and when he walks he flounces. "Come on, then."

Cautiously, Andrew follows a few paces behind the pirate, but it's hard to be cautious when he’s running so fast. It's hard to imagine he was locked up in a cage moments ago, because this suggests he's never stopped to rest a moment in his whole life. They snap through empty buildings and unguarded grassy areas, swiftly making their way to the holding cells but approaching from the back this time. When they're close enough, the pirate yanks Andrew down behind a bush and turns to look at him.

"We need a distraction. It's crawling with—" Before he can finish, a loud shot fires from somewhere above, abruptly followed by a distinct _thump_ that Andrew knows can only be the sound of a body hitting the floor. It happens again, and the third time, he dares to peer over the edge of the bush. Renee has made it up onto one of the sniper towers overlooking both the greenery Andrew had been chased across, and the jumble of buildings near the holding cells. When she spots him, she gives a little wave, then fires off another shot. Lying at her feet is a guard with his own sword stuck through his chest.

The pirate smiles. "Let's go, then."

Andrew moves first, lockpick in hand, and goes from door to door looking for Kevin while the pirate watches. He feels awful for Kevin: these cells are barely sheltered, their occupants exposed to the elements and the cool nights without protection. Inside each is a single bucket, but the stone walls are filthy, covered in blood and other, less pleasant bodily fluids.

"I'm Neil, by the way," the pirate says once Andrew has paused at a door. Kevin is inside, lying against the far room. Andrew had nearly missed him - he looks so small from here. He begins working on the lock. "Josten."

"Andrew."

"Just Andrew?"

"Minyard."

"Oh." An odd look comes over his face, and then he begins, "You don't h—"

"Don't talk to me while I'm working."

"Fine then." Neil flicks the tricorn lazily out of his eyes and crouches next to the body of a fallen guard, beginning to hunt methodically through his pockets. Eventually, he draws a dagger from a sheath hidden beneath the guard's coat and straightens. Neil spits on the body, mutters a violent curse, and keeps watch while Andrew works. "I'm the Captain of the _Black Sunrise,"_ Neil continues brightly. "If you get the chance, you should come down to the docks and see her. Magnificent ship. You got a ship, mate?"

Neil doesn’t wait for an answer. He begins to gaze off into the distance, as if imagining the glory of his vessel even though they’re in such a dangerous situation. As a matter of fact, Andrew does have his own ship: she’s called the _Chainsmoker._ She was Wymack’s, first, but he’d handed her over to Andrew so that he could escort Nicky safely to New York. Since then, she’s sailed only once or twice around Havana on patrols, so that the Order can monitor who is coming into their city.

Neil only snaps back to himself once Andrew has unlocked Kevin's cell door. He spins the dagger and taps its hilt on his hand.

"Hey, you ain’t seen any of El Carnicero's seconds around today, have you? Or, better yet, the big man himself?" he asks, a little more worried than before. 

Andrew, busy with the lock, shakes his head. 

"Hm. Wait here. I'll be back." Just like that, he's off again, faster than Andrew could hope to be even if he weren't preoccupied with freeing Kevin. Andrew twists just in time to spot him disappearing into a building, then refocuses on his work. Renee has mostly stopped firing, and she starts the climb back down the sniper tower. In the meantime, Andrew ventures into the cell and kneels beside Kevin.

"Rise and shine, Day."

"I don't have anything else to tell you," Kevin groans in response. There's a beat, and then he mutters, "Fuck off, then, you American sods."

"I love the attitude, Englishman, and if you'd rather I leave you to try and escape by yourself, I’m sure it would save me time and money. But El Carnicero wasn't going to let me come in here for free. It'd be a terrible shame to waste this opportunity, don't you think?"

"Andrew." He shifts to look up, even such a small movement seeming to take all his energy. Kevin opens his mouth again, then falters.

A little concerned, Andrew hushes him and pats him down for injuries. Thankfully, all of his limbs are intact; it wouldn't be the first time the Butcher has left one of the Order missing a hand or two. He's got a cut on his cheek and a few lacerations on his back from a whip, and he's paler than Andrew remembers. He always finds it so hard to tell. Kevin, being British, never seems to tan; he’s like a fucking vampire. His navy blue armbands are in tatters, but otherwise, he appears unharmed.

"I should leave you here," Andrew grumbles, dragging Kevin’s arm up and over his shoulders once he's satisfied with his physical situation. They stumble out of the cell together, Kevin's head lolling forward as he struggles to stay awake. "Of all the crimes you could commit in Havana, you were stupid enough to get caught stealing. What did you tell him?"

"Nothing," Kevin whispers. "They don't know anything."

Renee is quickly approaching from the grassy area on their right, calm, collected, and the binary opposite of Neil, who is still thundering around El Carnicero’s buildings, making a mess and looking rather aggravated.

"Take him back to the Den," Andrew tells Renee when she reaches them, handing Kevin over to her. "I'll meet with the Foxes later."

Renee doesn't say anything else, because nothing else needs to be said. Stronger than she appears, Renee takes Kevin’s arm over her shoulders and guides him gently but swiftly behind the block of holding cells. They’d scoped out their points of entry before attempting Kevin’s rescue, but, Andrew supposes, it doesn’t particularly matter which way she takes him home. He’d been spotted, and now the guards are dead. There’s nobody to avoid anymore and she’ll probably be back at the Den before he is. The Den, their own little corner of Havana, away from the influence of El Carnicero and all of his corrupted guards, is the safest place for Kevin to be right now. One day Andrew will take El Carnicero down, but they have a lot of work to do before then.

"I'm still looking for the Butcher." Neil, who has concluded his rampage, comes up on Andrew's left, agitation thinly masked by urgency. "He isn't here, but he's keeping a map on him that I need. You’re kind of a dick, but I feel like you're on the right track to find him, mate."

Andrew hesitates, then. Most of him wants to snap at Neil to get lost. Neil had helped Andrew and, in return, Andrew had offered him freedom. Better yet, Andrew hadn't killed him. But a part of him is curious. Another, smaller part believes Neil might even be useful in establishing the Order's influence in Havana. An even tinier part thinks the asshole is funny.

"Well, clearly he isn't in town tonight." Andrew looks off in the direction Renee and Kevin had disappeared. There isn't a trace of them. "I hate to say it but we owe you, Neil. If you want to accompany me back to my Den, the Order will give you food and shelter for the evening." Then, seeing Neil's disappointment, he adds a harsh, "Or, if not, you'll have your Butcher and your map when I next see you. I’m not going to drop everything and put my Order at risk because you’re impatient, _cabrón."_

"No, Andrew, there is no 'when I next see you'." Neil's tone darkens as he moves in front of Andrew, almost spitting the words out, and he wonders, suddenly, if he's actually going to try and stab him with that dagger. Again, Neil slips forward like a snake with attitude, swaggering and dominant in a way so typical of pirate captains. He can't be that much taller than Andrew, but even so, his presence is overbearing, looming over him, pressing into him, so similar and yet so different from the man that had been standing in his place seconds before.

"Not with an attitude like that." Andrew shoves him away, taking a clear defensive stance. It's the only way to deal with people like this. His temper has finally broken; patience has never been his strong suit. Most of his victims don't get the chance to justify themselves. "You can either rest in my Den or go somewhere else to get pissed enough to hunt down your fucking map, but I have more important things to do than babysit pirates. If you'll excuse me, _Captain."_ With that, Andrew snatches the dagger from Neil's hands and slips off into the night, leaving him behind to do whatever he decides.


	2. Chapter 2

The Den is a quiet little sanctuary hidden away within the mismatched architecture of Havana as it evolves slowly into a port city. It consists of three long but squat dormitories in a horseshoe shape, the centre house being Andrew’s Foxhole. That’s where their offices are, and where he usually meets with Renee and the other Foxes. The rest of the assassins sleep and eat in the two houses on either side of the Foxhole, train in the courtyard during the mornings and evenings, and conduct business in the rest of the city during the day.

There are about a hundred assassins in the Order, excluding the seven who make up the Foxes. Renee is Andrew's second; she'd stepped up to the plate after Aaron's death. Matt, Dan, Allison, Kevin and Seth have teams of twenty recruits each. It's their job to educate, mentor, and make sure everyone's safe, but they also specialise in different areas to ensure the Den runs smoothly: Renee’s team specialises in infiltration, and their black armbands signify their ability to melt away into even the smallest of shadows. Allison and her recruits, who are the most personable assassins, usually gather information on contracts for the Order; their armbands are dyed a light yellow. When there aren’t enough large-scale jobs in the city to feed everyone, or the Order needs to keep a low profile for a while, Kevin sends his group out, sporting navy blue, to steal food and other resources that will keep them going. If there is a big, well-paying job, that falls on Matt. His elite assassins wear blood red armbands, and will stop at nothing to kill their marks. It comes down to Seth’s brown-wearing recruits to clean those messes up, and Dan has trained an efficient number of assassins who wear white armbands and spend time healing the injured.

Andrew doesn’t like his recruits to get too used to one position, so he makes sure to rotate the younger ones through teams every six months. When they have completed a cycle through all of the Foxes’ groups, they can decide which one they would like to join permanently, and complete the rest of their training before initiation in the very courtyard that Andrew is now sitting in.

He likes where the Den is. It’s close enough to the city centre that his assassins can move freely through the bustling crowds without having to travel far, but private enough that El Carcinero’s local law enforcement never have reason to come snooping around their business. He likes the calm, confident way his assassins move around their space, and he likes how ordered and fluid they are. They’re doing good things in Havana.

On this particular morning, Andrew is sitting cross-legged atop a stack of supply crates that have been left in the centre of their cobbled courtyard, methodically sharpening his blades. His hood is up to protect him from the growing intensity of the sun, but a light breeze is wafting through the iron gates protecting the Den from the public and onto his face. Andrew would be sitting up in his favourite spot - the huge oak tree on the street behind the Foxhole branches out over it and into their courtyard - but, sadly, that space has already been occupied by an angry pirate.

He had heard Neil fall out of the tree twice while trying to climb it, and he had been fairly certain that he had been followed back to the Den after their little encounter last night, so Andrew can’t say he is particularly surprised at this occurrence. When he moves on to his fifth knife of the morning, Neil rustles the branches of the tree, impatient. Andrew, knowing he can’t ignore the pirate any longer, turns around and sighs.

"Oh, he's back," Andrew says to the tree, as if it were a child on some quest. "Has he brought some common sense with him?"

"I want my map." Neil drops out of the oak tree’s many branches and into the warm sunlight, pointing at him. "You're the only way I can get it."

Andrew considers this for a few moments, making Neil wait for him. The pirate does not look happy. There’s a twig stuck in his stupid hat, his sleeves are rolled messily up to his elbows in an attempt to combat the heat of the morning, and he’s wearing a distinctly grumpy frown.

Eventually, Andrew jumps down from the crates and slides his various knives back into the folds of his robes. "Fine. I'll help you. But only if you pay well."

"I'll pay whatever you need me to pay. Let's just go," he growls. 

Andrew holds his hands up in defeat and pulls his hood down, waiting for Neil to continue. They walk out of the gates of the Den together and into the streets of Havana, but stick to the shadows to avoid the ever-increasing heat. "I know where my—where El Carnicero is. We're going to the Cathedral."

"La Catedral de San Cristobal?" Neil nods, and Andrew can't help himself smiling in gentle appreciation. "A beautiful place."

"Also convenient for killing people, mate,” Neil jabs a finger at Andrew. “Don't forget why I need you. There's one way in and one way out. The Butcher is praying, and he's also mine." 

Andrew hums idly, an apple materialising in his hand from a nearby market stall, and lets Neil take the lead. Neil’s right, he supposes: the Cathedral is public, but mostly empty during the day. More than once, Andrew has sat in the pews of the church, observing important politicians and high-ranking members of society as they go about their daily routines. If he’s really lucky, he’ll catch a confession.

He can’t help wondering why Neil has invited him along in the first place if he's got it all worked out like this. "What do you need me for?" Andrew prods gently.

"Backup," Josten snorts. "My crew are my getaway but I need an inside man. I might know El Carnicero but I don't know Havana. If I need a quick escape..."

"So, what?" Andrew stops walking and suddenly everything in him is filled with that rage, burning, burning, eating him from the inside out. "You cause problems and then run away? I'm not your fucking scapegoat. I might not be El Carnicero but I have more power in this city than you, pirate."

As if remembering that, yes, even assassins can feel anger and frustration and confusion, Neil halts with a sigh. He spins back to face Andrew, jaw working for a moment, and Andrew really doesn't know how to feel about that.

No, no, he does. He's pissed.

"If you cross me," Andrew warns, "If you destroy my city or give my Den up to the Butcher, if you even think ab—"

"You'll kill me, I know." Neil rolls his eyes. "I've heard that one before."

Andrew steps up to him, meets his blue eyes. They might be the only thing about him that is unmarked from years of running away. He wonders if, hundreds of years in the future, people will be able to change their eyes. After all, they seem to be the only thing about a person that is constant. Everything else can be shaped and hidden and mended when it is broken. Eyes cannot. Eyes are windows to a person's true intentions.

And Neil Josten's eyes say that he is lying.

Andrew just needs to figure out what he’s lying about, though: who he is? What his true intentions in Havana are? It’s impossible to tell, and that’s increasingly frustrating to Andrew. To know a truth, but none of the details… it’s something only time can reveal. What a shame that neither of them live the kind of lives where time is something that can be taken advantage of. Andrew knows that every minute could be his last, and he came to terms with the objective reality of his own death many years ago. He wonders if Neil is ready to die, if he will ever give up his lies and truths, if, in the face of something utterly uncontrollable and inconceivable, he will reveal to it his own face.

Perhaps it isn’t Andrew’s place to know those lies. Not yet, at least. He takes a breath, long and slow, and as he exhales, stores his anger away for some other time. Everything Neil has said to him is important, but this isn't the place to be starting fights. It isn't the time, either; he hasn't been paid yet.

"Don't kill him in the church," Andrew mutters briefly, and leaves it at that.

Temporarily satisfied, Neil scrambles up onto a low wall, using it to cross to the roof of someone’s house. He begins running, running, running; Andrew continues his deliberately slow walk below, making him wait. It's funny: he's always been able to tell how his recruits were brought up. While Andrew had been allowed proper training in Havana and is a sure and graceful climber, he can tell that Neil grew up in back alleys and street fights. His techniques are messy and look dangerous, but so do Renee's, and they've saved his life before.

"Not coming, mate?" Neil hisses, stopping short when he realises Andrew isn't behind him. That's interesting. If he really didn't care, he'd keep going.

"You're asking for trouble up there, pirate," Andrew mumbles in response. "Best lay low for the time being if you're going after him today."

Neil doesn't answer as Andrew passes through a gathering crowd at the market, dropping his head low, but he does join Andrew and walk beside him for the rest of the journey.


	3. Chapter 3

"Christ, you wanna be any louder?" Neil snaps.

Andrew shrugs, looking up at him from beneath his hood. He's sitting quietly against a chimney on a flat section of the roof of the Cathedral, fiddling with his pointy things again while Neil peers over the ledge in front of them.

"Considering you wouldn't let me finish earlier."

"Considering you were taking your sweet time."

"I'll take all the time I want, _cabrón._ This is my city and I'm not going to let some pirate come in and undermine my Order's influence here because of a map. Once you have it, I want you out."

"Well I'm not leaving until I get it." He doesn't turn to look at Andrew, just keeps glaring off the edge of the roof, and in that moment, Andrew can't help wondering if he's been hit in the head.

"Why is it so important?" he asks instead.

"Because it is. Now shut up."

Andrew does.

He leans back against the chimney without another word, and only now does Neil twist to see his face. Andrew is wearing his usual stony expression, unimpressed but unwilling to react. Neil seems tense suddenly, like he's said the wrong thing and he's worried Andrew is going to lash out, but Andrew is ready to let it go for the moment. He'll deal with him later, in his own way.

The sun is warm on his skin, and he realises he's tired, so very tired. He has so much to do in so little time, and not enough people to delegate the jobs to. There are stakeouts and assassinations and heroics, things that aren't awfully civilised. Some things he doesn't want to stop doing because if he stops he'll never start again and that is unacceptable when there's such a huge amount of corruption in the world and his Order is one of few working to stop it. There are days when Andrew can’t help himself wondering: if he does stop, will his mind wander far enough into grief that he might never come back?

"Hey, you look like shit," Neil says, and his tone is quieter now, more considerate, but it still carries his defensive edge.

"Some of us have demanding jobs," Andrew says faintly, his words slurring ever so slightly. "I can't always afford to have the evening off drinking. I've got shit to do—paperwork and meetings and things. And Kevin was in pain; someone had to watch him."

"So you didn't sleep? You don't make fucking sense, Andrew." He can hear him shaking his head.

"Neither do you, Neil. Neither do you."

Andrew didn't quite mean to fall asleep, not with a pirate sitting on his favourite roof in the city, but it's dark again by the time he wakes up, and it's to a biting cold as the rain patters down around them. Neil hasn't moved but Andrew's clothes are ruffled and his knives are all in the wrong places, so he clocks that Neil must have done something with them.

"Did you rob me?"

"I should have," Neil threatens. "You slept through the whole day and you're working for me."

"And still your butcher prays," Andrew hums.

"We should just go in."

Andrew shakes his head, readjusting his weapons. "Patience, pirate. I told you I don't want you to kill him in the church. The people will lose their minds if a man is murdered on holy ground and the Order will lose all the support from the public which we so heavily rely on."

"Politics," Neil spits, and turns to glare at Andrew. "I sharpened your knives."

"Thank you."

Neil pauses, conflicted, and then asks, "Why don't you carry a gun?"

"Because I don't," he mutters, climbing to his feet and joining Neil in peering down at the street below. "Anything?"

"No."

Truth be told, Andrew has never really been a fan of guns anyway. He prefers to do his killing up close. It's easier to tell when the target's dead. Guns are the opposite of everything the Order has trained him to be: loud, obvious, long-range. They remind him painfully of Aaron and his smart mouth.

But Andrew won't spiral again. He has a job to do. "How much do you know about El Carnicero, then?"

Neil scoffs. "More than you, _asesino._ You think this is your city, but it ain’t really. You don’t ever see his face, right? You've probably never even met one of the Moriyamas."

"Hm," Andrew hums. "You're right. He keeps himself well-hidden in his little complex. I run the backstreets, but his influence over the public is growing because of his relation to the Moriyamas; they are more scared of him than us. Didn't have him down as a Catholic, though."

"His name is Nathan Wesninski and he begs for the Pope's support," Neil spits. "Havana is a city of thieves and lowlifes. If he can prove that these people will see reason and enlightenment, he will have more power in days than your little Order has achieved in years. I can't let that happen. I need him dead, now."

Neil moves to climb off the roof but Andrew grabs his arm and squeezes, stopping him immediately. "You're hiding something," he snarls. "I asked you for the truth."

A pause; he is thinking. While he does, Andrew begins stripping off most of his darker clothes and thin armour, until he’s left with the basic white robe he usually wears to prevent chafing in the heat. He is just about to take his leave and scope out the inside of the Cathedral when Neil whispers to him.

"I know who your brother is."

And oh, no, Andrew should have seen this coming from a mile away: the half-question when they'd first met at the Butcher's camp, the squints and stares and excuses. All of the anger Andrew had willed away earlier comes back to shove him in the chest and, before he knows it, he is lunging forward and holding Neil off the edge of the building by his shirt.

The day would have come eventually, but Andrew had rather expected himself to go and find Aaron's murderer, rather than this guy just showing up in his city and demanding things: his release, his map, his butcher.

Neil doesn't look at all surprised by Andrew's reaction but he isn't quite helping the situation, either.

"He just… he talked so much, and I wasn't sure if I liked him or not. But you're different, mate. I didn't know he had a twin."

"Shut the fuck up," Andrew snarls, snapping out his favourite knife. "I don't care why you knew him or whether you liked him or not. You have no idea of the consequences your actions had here." Here, in Havana. Here, in Andrew's home, within Andrew's family. Here, within Andrew himself. "Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now."

"I can't." Neil looks confused but his voice is barely a whisper. "I need that map. I can't tell you why yet."

He is right, of course. The job hasn't been finished yet; Neil is still under his protection. It would be against their doctrine to kill him now, and no matter how murderous Andrew is feeling in this moment, he needs El Carnicero dead more than he needs Neil dead.

Slowly, slowly, Andrew steps back and puts Neil down. 

The pirate straightens his stupid hat. "You're different," he repeats. "There's something more about you."

"I said, shut up."

God forbid, Andrew actually feels... disappointed. He had liked Neil. Of all the pirates to begin trusting, Andrew had let this one into his life, with his constant running and sharp tongue and lying blue eyes. He had tried his best not to show his begrudged fondness for the pirate outwardly, but this circumstance leaves him no option but to shut Neil out completely. They will finish the job and Andrew will collect his money before killing Neil. There will be nothing more else between them, ever. There can't be.

"You've forfeited leadership on this mission by killing a member of the Order," Andrew explains coldly.

"Wait—"

"From now on," Andrew interrupts, "I call all of the shots and you do exactly as I say. If you do not, I will refuse to help you any further and you will be on your own. Is this clear?"

"Yes," Neil says quietly. "I understand."

"Good," Andrew says. "I'm going to go into the church and take a look around. Wait here."

"Can I—"

"Wait here," Andrew repeats softly but firmly before swinging down off the roof, toeing open one of the stained-glass windows that has been left on the latch, and slipping through it.


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Andrew lands silently on the mezzanine next to the organ, clambering quickly up on top of it before he can be spotted. He lies low, peering over the tips of the pipes at the church below. El Carnicero is kneeling in a pew, facing the altar. Nobody is around him. He's dressed in vestments and, as the first members of the congregation filter in for evening mass, he rises to greet them.

_This complicates things,_ Andrew thinks, looking around to see how he can climb down unnoticed. Then, more furiously, _And Neil didn't tell me Wesninski was a priest._

A few minutes pass and someone strikes up a conversation with El Carnicero, evidently in some distress. He puts a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder, leading her off to a confessional, and Andrew takes the chance to hop back onto the mezzanine and hurry down to the main church hall, pulling his hood up and slowing to a walk. Nobody bothers him as he proceeds to the sacristy.

"Server," Wesninski calls from behind him, and Andrew stiffens, turning slightly. "Prepare the Eucharist, would you? I expect two hundred people tonight." Andrew nods and the butcher waves him off. He breathes out. This will not be easy.

For the moment, Andrew plays along. He prepares the Eucharist and keeps his hood up and carries the candle for mass, listening to El Carnicero profess his thinly veiled sadism.

He can't strike inside the Cathedral, but he can send him a threat: as Wesninski lifts up the Eucharistic bread to bless it, the fox paw—the mark of Andrew's Order—inked on it becomes clear to them both.

El Carnicero freezes, looks up beyond the Eucharist at the mezzanine, and drops everything. Andrew follows his gaze.

Neil is standing on the mezzanine, his hood up and his posture stoic.

_Fuck._

Wesninski stammers an exclamation, pointing, and Neil aims his gun; Andrew is quick to launch himself at the target and get him under cover of the altar. He can't be killed here. Andrew had told Neil to wait.

A shot fires at the altar, the crack resonating around the room, and the congregation begins screaming, clambering over each other to get out of the Cathedral and to safety.

Neil jumps down next to them and Andrew shoves him viciously aside, grabs El Carnicero's sleeve, and pulls him along to the doors of the Cathedral. Neil screams a malicious curse at their backs but Andrew ignores him, breaking free past the masses of terrified churchgoers into the street and hauling the butcher along behind him.

They run for ten minutes to get out of the way of the public before stopping. El Carnicero leans against a wall, breathless, and Andrew waits patiently in front of him, used to running for much longer.

"Thank you...thank you," he gasps; Andrew tilts his head to the side. "You've... saved me. I owe you everything."

"Even your life?" He pulls his hood down and draws one of his favourite knives, pressing it against the target's throat. 

El Carnicero’s eyes widen, but he stays quiet. 

"I can't kill a man on holy ground," Andrew continues. "But I can in a back alley. Especially if he's a Moriyama spy guilty of rape, murder, theft, extortion... The list goes on."

He hesitates, and that's when Neil rounds the corner with a mighty yell.

"Minyard!" he shouts. Wesninski tries to run, thinking he's distracted, but Andrew's knife is pressed tight against his neck and it slits his throat without any movement.

He's dead by the time Neil reaches them.

Andrew takes the map from beneath Wesninski’s vestments. When it is safely in his possession, he looks up, and sees fire burning in Neil's eyes. It tells him all he needs to know. Turning, Andrew starts to walk away.

"Take your map." Andrew throws it to the ground behind himself. "And get out of my city."

"I told you he was my kill!" Neil shouts. Andrew hesitates.

This time he will retaliate.

Neil needs to learn a lesson.

"And I told _you,"_ he reasons calmly, "Not on holy ground."

"He was mine!"

"So you went behind my back to compromise us?"

"I don't—"

"No, you listen to me," Andrew snaps back at him, pushing him away, and pulling out a clean knife. Neil, in retaliation, grabs him by the neck and shoves him up against the wall of the alley.

Andrew stops everything.

"Are you sure you want to do that?" he asks softly.

Neil takes a quick look around at the assassins creeping out of the shadows, guns and knives pointed at him: they are all wearing blood-red armbands. After a moment, he puts Andrew down and backs away slightly, bristling with anger.

"I don't care," Andrew continues furiously, getting up close, "Whether Wesninski was your kill or not because, either way, he's dead." He casts his gaze to the limp body on the ground. "And I don't care how much this fucking map means to you, or why you want it so badly that you'd try to kill me and compromise my Order again."

Matt walks out from the shadows. He picks up Neil's map for Andrew. Neil stares at it, his fists clenched by his sides.

"What I do care about," Andrew continues, "is you attempting to kill a man on holy ground after I told you not to, and after I told you why." He raises his voice slightly when Neil looks like he's losing interest, stepping closer and drawing himself up taller. "Do you have any idea what you've done? How much trouble we'll have to go to in order to fix this?" He shakes his head and backs off again. "You tried to kill him in front of two hundred people in plain sight, Neil, and it's made a bloody mess of things. Now I have to deal with the consequences of that. So once again: take your fucking map, and get out of my city. You're not even worth killing."


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

The Den is chaos.

Assassins are running around with stolen newspapers for tomorrow's publication, shouting about eyewitnesses, heralds, and Riko Moriyama visiting to investigate. They aren't prepared for this. They're all going to die horrible, brutal, bloody deaths.

Andrew redresses in his usual attire, recovered from the Cathedral, and as soon as he's spotted, ten different assassins approach him with questions, demands, and accusations. All he wants is a cigarette.

"I want a cigarette," he tells Renee as she jogs up.

"You need to speak to them," Renee advises, gentle in the way she always is. "They need to hear your voice."

Andrew sighs bitterly. He doesn't want to do this. He wants Aaron here. He wants to kill Neil Josten. And he wants a fucking cigarette.

Renee hands over a newspaper for him to read and Andrew snatches it up with another sigh that feels like it’s being pulled from his bones. He skims over it before scaling the side of the supply crates he had been sitting on just that morning, and waiting for someone to notice him.

Waves of silence ripple through the Den. The assassins listen to him; they've always listened to him.

Andrew breathes out and sits down, giving himself time to transform his thoughts into the words he needs. "Stop everything you're doing and listen; I will tell you the truth."

All of the assassins in the Order are watching Andrew carefully. Every single Fox, and every single one of their recruits - lines of white and yellow and blue. Andrew knows he is responsible for all of these people. He knows it is his duty to protect them. Then, he meets Kevin's eyes and has to suppress a flinch: he is still covered in bandages. Andrew cannot let there be an incident like that again.

"The pirate Captain Neil Josten caused our exposure on a contract for El Carnicero—who was posing as a priest—earlier tonight." Andrew studies the newspaper carefully. "I'd like to say it wasn't his fault or mine, but that isn't true: he was selfish and I was more willing to help him than I should have been. He refused to listen to orders and it compromised the Order." He bows his head and lowers his voice. "But let this be a lesson to all of us: it is human to make mistakes, no matter the consequence."

There is quiet for a few moments. "How do we fix those mistakes?" Renee asks softly, from a few feet into the crowd.

Andrew thinks about this for a moment, and then he offers, "It is no longer safe here in Havana for us. By morning, we need to infiltrate the printing rooms and steal all of the newspapers, replacing them with our own. This will expose El Carnicero for the traitor he was, and reduce all rumours of an attack in la Catedral to simply that: rumours. There is no doubt in my mind that Riko Moriyama will follow through with his decision to visit us. We must leave the Den and hide in small groups, undermining him until he leaves and the city's defences fall to us once more. Bribe heralds. Spread rumours. Act kindly towards the public. We start immediately. Go!"

Some assassins rush to the few printing presses they have, beginning to set the type for newspapers and notices under direction of Allison and Kevin. Matt and Dan take their recruits and run off to scout out safe hiding places, while Seth instructs his group of assassins to destroy any evidence that they ever occupied the Den at all.

Renee breaks away from her group, who are filtering out into the streets to limit the damage to their reputation through whatever means necessary, and approaches as Andrew climbs down from the stack of supply crates. "That was strong." She smiles. "Diligent, and stoic. Can I have a word?"

"Of course." They step off into a quieter room of the Den.

"Look—" She begins, but is cut off by a knock on the door. "Come in."

"Andrew, the papers are ready." Allison hands one over and he scans it briefly, checking the finer details—date, time, layout.

"Perfect." Andrew gives it back, then decides he's feeling generous and adds a compliment. "Very well executed. Have them delivered at once by three of our men.."

"Of course." She leaves them and Andrew turns back to Renee.

That is when they hear the first shouts.

"What—" Renee is a step ahead of Andrew, crashing out through the door into the courtyard of the Den. Assassins are quickly clearing the space, sprinting for cover on rooftops and in shadows, anywhere safe from whatever threat has turned up at their front door.

Andrew pulls his hood up, knuckles white in the sun; his eyes are drawn to the Moriyama soldiers kicking down the remnants of the courtyard gates, which look like they've been blown off by a grenade.

Quite uncharacteristically, Renee swears and sprints off. Andrew knows that the soldiers are watching him: he cannot react to her sudden change of mind. Instead of calling after her, he tries to take a steadying breath. Then, Andrew steps forward into the middle of the courtyard, pulling out one of his knives.

A guard steps through the others, holding a paper like he's a herald. Andrew immediately recognises him; he hadn’t known that Jean Moreau was in Havana. That’s strange. Andrew knows everything that happens in this city. How had El Carcinero managed to keep this so quiet?

Jean clears his throat, holds the paper even higher, and begins to speak. “Riko Moriyama demands the surrender or execution of the assassins responsible for the murder of Nathan Wesninski. Please surrender your weapons immediately.”

It’s very unlikely that Andrew is suddenly going to have a change of heart and follow Jean’s orders. He is hit by the sudden realisation that he is alone in the courtyard, but he doesn't doubt for a second that, even if Renee has disappeared, his assassins have his back. All trace of exhaustion is gone from his body as his basic survival instincts kick in. He straightens.

"Do not step into my Den," Andrew warns. "We will not spare you."

"And we," Jean steps closer, "Will not spare you."

There's a slight pause, and, testing his luck, Jean takes one more step forward.

_"Mátalos._ Kill them." Andrew makes a flippant gesture, staying stock still. A variety of guns go off, some knives are thrown, and the majority of the soldiers drop dead, though their places are quickly filled.

Andrew knows that he will put the lives of all of his assassins in danger of Riko’s temper if he kills Jean, too, so he steps forward and slams his fist into Jean’s chin, sending him sprawling back onto the cobblestones. Without losing momentum, Andrew carries on into the lines of soldiers, kicking the legs of the next out from under him and slitting his throat on the way down. His assassins rush forth to help him take down man after man, but they all tire easily in hand-to-hand combat.

"Allison, we need men alive!" Andrew calls when he spots her a few metres away, parrying a guard’s attack with her blades and rolling away from him as he falls. Seth, next to her, is barrelling his way past the guards, holding a tiny parcel. "Get them out of here!"

She shouts an agreement back at him and Andrew carries on, his steps light and his guard up. Renee rejoins him a moment later, knives out and a dangerous look on her face.

Wymack had taught them very early on the differences in fighting styles for men and women. Renee is strong; she's one of the strongest people Andrew knows, but physically, she won’t stand a chance against someone like Riko. Seth, Kevin, and Matt can all afford to have brash and confident fighting styles, able to stand tall and proud and wave a sword around like it’s nothing. Allison, Renee, and most of their female recruits have to stay lower, be less flamboyant and more stealthy, their movements quick and elegant. When Renee fights, she looks like a flower unfolding in the morning sun. If someone stares for too long in the wrong place, she will most probably blind them.

She puts this into practice now, twisting and slithering around the destruction, doing her best to avoid sharp pointy things and get out of the line of fire. Andrew watches her take down one guard, then another. He has just jumped onto a third and is choking him while Renee’s back is turned when the second disarms her, spins around to face Andrew, and sticks Renee’s knife into his side.

"Fuck," Andrew drops heavily to the floor. "Fuck.” 

He can't stay here—a few assassins are still fighting by his side, but the number of Moriyama guards is overwhelming, and he's going to be trampled. Renee’s expression shifts slightly when she slams her knife with force into the guard’s back: not quite worry, but certainly not apathy, either.

"Go. Get out." Andrew waves weakly to her before she can get herself killed as well.

He slips into the shadows to try and get away, but he's bleeding everywhere and there's blood on his hands and holy shit, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts.

Andrew barely makes it onto the roof of the Bureau before his knees give out and his head starts hurting and he can't keep his eyes open.


	6. Chapter 6

"Okay, let's get you out of here," Neil’s rough voice says as he heaves Andrew up and over his shoulder. 

Andrew opens his eyes slightly and grunts a reply, but then Josten starts walking, and Andrew can't help groaning.

"Easy," he grumbles. "Hurts."

"I know it does, but your side don't look good, so it's speed or death, mate: you decide."

"Death." Andrew shuts his eyes again—Christ, his head. He feels Neil exhale gently and speed up a little more. Andrew does his best to control his breathing and stay awake and alert because he knows if he falls asleep now he isn't going to make it.

"Told you… get out of Havana," Andrew manages to slur. "Ain't no place f'pirates with no soul."

"And yet here I am, saving your ass," Neil retorts, that biting sarcasm snapping through Andrew's pain.

"You risked your life for me, _cabrón."_ It's ridiculous, but Andrew can't help smiling, both at his own ability to form a full sentence and Neil's growing compassion. He's come so far. Andrew wonders, "What changed, pirate?"

Josten hesitates; it definitely isn't a good sign.

"I'm sorry," he says eventually.

"Neil—" He moves and Andrew rolls out of his grip, skids across the floor, and comes up in a crouch with one hand on his wound and the other bracing himself on the floor. "Fuck." 

Neil is standing there with his gun out and, as Andrew watches, he approaches steadily. 

"Stop. Neil, stop where you are, or I'll have to kill you. _Neil."_

"I know what you've done for these people. I know why they look up to you. But—"

"Who blackmailed you, pirate?" Andrew realises, taking his own blades out. "Tell me, and I can help you. We can both survive this. Neil. Tell me." He's panicking. Neil can probably tell. He's saying his name far too much, looking around for an exit, looking for the weak spots he already knows he has. Andrew forces himself to stop and takes a steadying breath. "Do not force me to kill you. I have been lenient, but if you make me question your loyalty any further, I will not hesitate." His words are stern but simple. He sounds like a teacher. Or a father. "We will work this out, I promise you, but do not give me any more reason not to trust you."

Andrew sees Neil hesitate again and knows he has him. He holds out the arm bracing himself on the floor, and Neil takes it, pulling Andrew to his feet.

"Fucking hell," Andrew breathes, touching his temple lightly and trying to pretend it didn't make him dizzy. "What do they have on you?"

"The Black Sunrise."

"Your ship?" Andrew can't help himself. "Neil, you were going to kill me over your fucking _ship?"_

"Cargo's what's important. You'll find out later."

"Oh, will I?" Andrew snaps, shaking his head. “You better follow me before I lose my temper. This way."

“You might want to stop bleeding out first.”

Andrew grumbles a nasty word at him, but eventually relents so Neil can help him stem the flow of blood from his side. The pain is terrible but Andrew is convinced he can work through it. No, no. He has to work through it. There is so much to do.

They move mostly silently through the streets of Havana, Neil listening for guards, Andrew following clues left by the other assassins that guide them towards some kind of hideout or safehouse. The pain doesn’t get any better, but the city is small, and before long they've reached the coast. Neil's ship is gone; the crew must have been warned.

Andrew directs him to a cave five or six metres above sea level and they climb up together; Neil has to aid him more than Andrew would really like. As soon as they step inside, Andrew sees nothing but knives.

"Renee?" he calls, and the assassins relax.

Renee emerges from the darkness, Kevin close behind. As they do, Andrew’s eyes adjust to the dimmer light: it’s a fairly large cave, maybe half the size of the courtyard in the Den, but even so, less than half of Renee and Kevin’s recruits are in here with them. They have set up lines of sleeping mats against the far wall and a medical bay next to it, where the injured are being treated by Dan, and five or six of her team. Closer to Andrew are abandoned bags and stolen food: they must have just been setting up a kitchen of sorts.

"You made it," Renee says warmly, prying Andrew away from Neil.

_"Encerrarlo."_ Andrew makes a flippant gesture in Josten's direction, and immediately, three of Kevin’s assassins, sporting navy blue armbands, seize him.

"Wh—get your filthy fucking hands off of me—" Neil shouts in the background.

In the meantime, Renee helps Andrew quietly to a straw bed. He struggles to lay down and Dan rushes to his side. Her white armband is stained red with somebody else’s blood.

"The recruits," Andrew gasps. “How badly are they hurt?”

"We all live," Dan responds gently.

"Renee—" 

Renee hurries to his side, instructing Kevin to keep an eye on Neil for the moment.

"Take your filthy hands off me, you animals—" Neil shouts, still fighting.

"I know—” Andrew coughs, then continues, “I know what that package was. That you and Seth stole, before we ran. Bring it here."

Neil gives a particularly loud and angry shout, and Andrew pointedly ignores it. Renee waits until Neil is finished before saying, "Andrew, I'm not sure that's a good idea."

"Just fucking do it, Renee."

Most likely irritated because he is being ignored, Neil turns back to insults. "Minyard, you fucking whore!"

"You're delightful too!" Kevin shouts back, making a lovely gesture that sends a burst of laughter careening around the cave.

Renee still looks dubious, but she reaches into her pocket and takes out the package. She was right to keep it on her person: this is far too precious to leave at the mercy of… well, anybody, really.

Inside is a tiny vial full of sparkling silver liquid. Andrew has no idea what it is. Wymack had given it to him years ago, before he'd retired, before Aaron had died and Nicky had left.

_A gift,_ he'd said, _For emergencies only: one-time use, all your wounds healed and worries washed away, no refunds. Don't waste it and don't try to take it in two or three doses. You'll die._

He'd been a blunt old man.

_Where's it from?_ Aaron had asked. Andrew remembers, of course he remembers, because it had been his voice, his curiosity, his youth, too.

_Who knows?_ Wymack had shrugged. Andrew had been pissed off. Aaron had been in awe. _An old friend of mine gifted it to me, and he said it had fallen from the stars. I've heard rumours of it before. God knows how he got his hands on it. Don't know why he'd bother giving it to me, either, the psychic prick._

Now, Andrew drinks it without further hesitation. It's an odd, discomforting feeling. His skin stitches itself back together, cell by cell, his pain disappearing in tiny increments and the strength slowly returning to his body.

"Is it working?" Renee asks quietly. When he nods, she advises, "You should rest."

Considering, Andrew lays back and closes his eyes. He finds the darkness welcoming, so doesn't bother opening them again. After a few seconds, Renee leaves. He'll deal with the pirate later.


	7. Chapter 7

When Andrew wakes up, his first thought is Neil, which can under no circumstances be a good thing. His second is his wounded side. His third is the Order.

Josten is still cursing and shouting; Andrew can hear him from where he is, but faintly, like he's outside.

His side is fully healed now, the pain only a distant memory, but Andrew can feel a terrible scar there. It's not as bad as it could have been.

Kevin and Dan look calm. He can see them moving quietly around, giving instructions to organise food and supplies until they can find more permanent headquarters, creating something from nothing under the direction of the Foxes. Equally silently, Andrew stands and finds his way around the room, supervising, supporting, alleviating the pressure from some of their more troubled-looking recruits.

"Captain Josten is in a makeshift pit outside," Kevin snickers. "A few of us guard him at all times. We thought it best to move both him and you so you could rest in peace."

“I’m not dead yet,” Andrew snorts. “Where’s Renee?”

“She went to find out where the others are hiding.”

Andrew nods, and wanders out of the cave and up a steep path in the general direction of Neil's shouting.

"Calm down, Josten," he says as he approaches, "I think we've all heard enough from you." Andrew motions for the assassins guarding him to leave them.

"Let me out," Neil growls.

"I think we need to have a chat, now that I'm in a position to do so."

"Oh really?"

"Oh really." Andrew nods and hunkers down next to the pit, peering in at him. "Isn't this romantic? Just like when we met."

Josten doesn't answer, so Andrew lifts his hood up over his head and lowers his voice to a whisper. "The Moriyamas have eyes everywhere, Josten, even in the sky. Whatever your precious cargo is, it’s as good as gone if they think you’re cooperating with us." He pauses, then adds, "With me."

"You're a fucking joke."

"I'm an act, Neil; there's a difference. You don't put on a good show, you don't get what you want. And this life is all about want."

"It's children," he spits.

"You're going to need to be more specific."

"The cargo, on the Black Sunrise." He turns in the tiny hole, slumps against the opposite wall, and rolls up his sleeves. "They're fucking kids."

There's a brief pause in which Andrew can't breathe properly.

He steps back and straightens. When he's calm enough to form words, he musters the strength to say, "Neil Josten, if you're thinking about selling these children into slavery, I will—"

"I'm not, so give over," he grunts. Andrew sits down.

"Then what—” he presses his face to the bars, “—are you doing with them?"

"I took 'em. From the Moriyama camps across the oceans. Was going to free them when it was safe."

"Fuck," Andrew spits, putting his head in his hands. "Fuck me."

"Gladly, but—"

"Why is nothing ever simple with us, Neil? I thought I trusted you then you went behind my back and tried to kill someone on holy ground. I gave you a chance to clear your name and you sold me out to the Moriyamas. I let you help me and you tried to kill me. And now, after all of this, you tell me you have a ship full of children waiting for my Order to help them."

"Look." Neil glares up at him. "There's sixty-three from all over. Youngest is five. Oldest is eleven. Is there nothing you can do for them? Anything is better than what they came from."

"How old were you," Andrew asks abruptly, "When you became a pirate?"

"I don't know," he snaps back. "Eighteen? Nineteen? Why?"

"Because you'd lived a fucking life! These kids know nothing about what is right or wrong for them in this world. You can't take those choices away from them!"

"Well, how old were you when you joined the Order?"

"Six!" he roars, slamming the bars of the pit with the palm of his hand. "I was six and I didn't have a fucking clue who I was or what I wanted! I didn't have a choice!"

"So you won't help them?"

"I don't know if I can," Andrew threatens. "I honestly don't, Neil." Now it is his turn to shield himself from Neil; Andrew turns his face to the sea and breathes in and out once more. "Let me meet them; I will go from there."

Kevin tells them where the Black Sunrise is moored and Andrew walks through Havana silently with Neil, heading to the docks. They stop on the wooden pier to watch the citizens working by the ocean, full of life as usual, chatting and singing and laughing as the sun begins to set. One man wanders around with a torch, lighting lanterns as he whistles a merry tune.

"Neil," Andrew says quietly, not taking his eyes off the lantern-lighter, "I am only going to ask you this once. Are you lying to me about where these children are?"

"No," he says immediately.

"Okay," Andrew answers simply.

"Why?"

"Don't say another word. Board the Black Sunrise." 

Neil looks at him suspiciously but does as he asks, calling up to his crew for permission to board.

Andrew turns to the nearest barrel, sniffing the air sharply. A crowd of men pass, their nets full with the evening’s catch. As they laugh amongst themselves, Andrew tilts the barrel onto its rim and rolls it four or five feet to the closest lantern. The people move on; Andrew sits atop the barrel. He clearly wasn’t invisible enough: some of Moriyama’s men have noticed him. They stomp over, expressions twisting when they recognise him.

All of a sudden a hand grabs Andrew's shoulder and throws him to the ground; a blade is pressed to his throat. One of Riko’s guards kneels behind him. He forces Andrew up onto his knees, the cold steel of his sword pressing dangerously into his throat. Andrew growls his disagreement, but has to obey. The crowds scatter, screaming, but that isn’t important to Andrew right now.

"You are given the chance to turn yourselves over to Riko Moriyama, traitor," the guard shouts at Neil, loud, clear. "If you do not, we will kill you both." 

Andrew turns his eyes to the Black Sunrise and catches sight of Neil, pacing the deck frantically with one hand on his hip and the other rubbing the back of his neck. He looks frustrated. Torn. He needs to stop panicking.

"I won't wait forever, pirate!" the guard cries. He tugs Andrew’s hair, pulling his head violently back. The edge of his sword, sharp and threatening, slices the first layer of Andrew’s skin. Blood trickles down his neck. Andrew doesn’t dare to breathe.

"Okay—okay, stop!" Neil darts forwards, hands gripping the wooden rails of the Black Sunrise. "What are your terms, man?"

"Surrender now and—" Andrew gives up being patient. While the guard is distracted, he knocks his head back into the soldier's nose and grabs the blade of his sword, ripping it out of his grasp. In seconds, he's slipping away from him, raising his own weapon against him.

The guard yelps in surprise and Andrew readjusts his grip to the hilt of the sword rather than the blade, slamming it viciously against his head and taking his pistol as he drops. Andrew aims the pistol at the guard running towards him but is quick to dance back to the edge of the docks. He hears shouts from the Black Sunrise but keeps going, backwards, backwards, until he is tiptoeing right on the edge of the docks, perfectly balanced, heels in free space over the water.

"I'm going over to help!" Neil yells to his crew.

Andrew points the pistol at him, crossing swords with the oncoming guards. One foot steps forward to brace himself, the other stays where it is. Josten pulls up short, frowning at Andrew as he parries another attack and moves the pistol again.

"Stay right there," Andrew warns, aiming at the lantern he'd been sitting under and pulling the trigger.

He doesn't stick around to see what happens but throws himself back into the sea; even underwater, the sound of the explosion is clear as day. The lantern had fallen and the barrel of gunpowder ignited. A burning beam drops down next to Andrew and catches his robes as he struggles against it. No, no—he's struggling against a current. Fuck.

Andrew fights to swim up or down as the mast is carried away to the open sea. He has to get back to the Black Sunrise, has to get Neil out of here, his crew, those kids.

Maybe it's luck, maybe it's strength, but he's pushed suddenly to the side of the ship and finds a handhold among barnacles; as he does, a hand grabs the back of his robes and yanks him out of the water.

Andrew splutters and gasps as he's hefted up into the air, and finds a grip on the side of the ship. Neil is grinning down at him, hanging off a rope ladder down the side of the ship. As Andrew watches, he climbs back up, gesturing for Andrew to follow him. They sprawl onto the deck of the Black Sunrise together, Andrew soaking wet and gasping, Neil still smiling.

"Go!" Neil shouts, and the ship pulls away from the dock, crewmen calling out to each other. He lowers his voice and starts patting Andrew down. "You hurt, mate?"

"I'm fine," Andrew spits. "I need to board my own ship. Drop me off?"

"Up the mast," Neil tells him and sends him off with a pat on the back. Andrew rolls his eyes and climbs over a few stacked crates to reach the ladder to the crow’s nest.

“You ship is a mess, pirate,” Andrew mutters to himself, shaking his head.

The Black Sunrise sways beneath him and, as Andrew looks down, he notices younger faces looking up at him, mingled in with the crew. The children. Andrew turns his eyes to the sky and clambers up further.

He sneaks out onto the lower yard arm and balances at the end carefully but not with much difficulty. Andrew takes a moment to breathe. He looks down at the destruction he's caused: the dock is in flames, nobody in sight. His own ship, The Chainsmoker, nears.

"This is as close as I can get us!" Neil shouts up at him.

"I could get closer." Andrew mutters under his breath, shaking his head. They're still several metres away. It might as well be miles. He looks up and leaps anyway.


	8. Chapter 8

The children gasp as one from below as Andrew pushes himself up and away from the mast; his hands stretch up and his legs flick out. There's a moment where his heart leaps into his throat and gravity is almost reversed as he flies through the air, robes flying out behind him; then his fingers catch on the rigging of the Chainsmoker and his body swings forward before he pulls himself up and finds the balance to start climbing down.

"Go!" Andrew shouts to his crew, all at their stations; the children on the Black Sunrise cheer as the Chainsmoker pulls away to the open sea.

Andrew scampers back down the rigging, jumps the last few feet, and rolls when he hits the deck.

"You came?" He directs the question to Kevin, who moves over so he can take the wheel. He steers a hard right out to the High Sea, where the Black Sunrise has already caught the wind and is cruising gently, faster than them.

"I thought you might want backup," Kevin shrugs, but there is a hungry spark in his eyes that Andrew hasn't seen in far too long. "Get those sails unfurled!" he follows up. Andrew shouts his affirmative in hopes of catching up with Neil, and they leave the burning docks of Havana behind.

The crew are quick to obey and soon Havana is on the horizon, burning, burning, burning. Neil brings the Black Sunrise to a halt and Andrew drops anchor next to him, closer than Neil had dared go to the Chainsmoker, almost dangerously close.

_"This_ is jumping distance," Andrew tells him. Neil scoffs but offers up a hand and Andrew takes it, hopping across the gap between their ships. Laughing, Neil sits his limp tricorne comfortably on Andrew's head. He's about to take it off when some of the children laugh.

Andrew beckons to them and crouches down.

"Is this all of you?" They shake their heads. "No? Some of you must be below deck, ah? Okay. Lead the way," he gestures, and one of them throws himself at Andrew. The youngest—five, he remembers.

"Oof," Andrew says, stumbling back a step, but he catches him, and hoists him up onto his hip. They head below deck and Andrew gazes out at all... sixty-three of them, Neil had said, huddled in corners.

"Neil..." Andrew starts weakly, his breath catching in his throat.

Neil has rolled most of his cannons away from the gunports and secured them in a safe area to let daylight and fresh air in. The kids are talking, eating, drinking. Some of them have poorly-made toys or new, warm clothes over their own tattered rags. He's really done everything he can for them.

"Captain Josten's back!" A young girl cheers, running over. "And he's brought a friend!"

"Hello, love." Neil scoops her up into his arms, tickling her gently. He looks over at Andrew. 

Andrew is speechless.

"He's a very cool assassin!" One of the kids yells. "He can climb higher than you've ever seen before!"

"Wow! Mister Aaron, look!”

_Mister—?_

Andrew’s heart stutters, then stops completely.

There, being tugged by the hand towards Andrew and Neil, is Aaron. It’s unmistakable: he’s grown a beard, and is dressed in similar clothes to Neil, but those are Andrew’s eyes, his nose, his mouth.

“Oh,” Aaron says as the child leads him right up to Andrew, “Fuck.”

Andrew really doesn’t know what to do. He wants to probably hit Aaron, maybe strangle Neil, and definitely tell them all to piss off, but there are sixty-three children present, who don’t need to see anymore violence today. His jaw works away for a moment, and he jabs a finger into Aaron’s chest, as if to check that he is real.

“Ow,” Aaron says. “What was that for?”

“For growing that thing on your face,” Andrew snarls. “It looks like a hamster.”

Aaron touches his beard, frowning. The child on Andrew’s hip laughs brightly, and Andrew swallows thickly, then puts him down.

“It’s good to see you,” he admits quietly. Aaron doesn’t say anything else, but he relaxes slightly, and the corner of his mouth tilts up.

"Let's talk in my quarters," Neil says eventually. "We'll be back, kids."

“Do you want to explain, pirate?” Andrew asks, following him up the stairs to the main deck.

“I was going to tell you.” Neil turns around, and even though he is silhouetted in the sunlight, Andrew knows he is glaring. “But then you went off on a rant about how I—” he puts on a voice to mimic Andrew, “—’forfeited leadership on this mission by killing a member of the Order’, and then you were worried about the kids, so I didn’t really have a chance, did I?”

They carry on walking, sea spray hitting Andrew in the face as he navigates Neil’s ship. Aaron pipes up helpfully, “They boarded the coloniser ship after a few weeks at sea. I had a useful skill set, so Captain Josten recruited me.”

“Why didn’t you come back to Havana?” Andrew asks, brushing past a crew member. “And why was I told you hadn’t made it?”

“I wasn’t really cut out to be an _asesino,_ was I?” Aaron snaps as they near the doors to Neil’s quarters. “I needed an out one way or another. But I suppose you were always better at disappearing.”

Neil disappears into his cabin, but before Andrew follows him, he turns on Aaron, jabbing that finger into his chest again.

“I could have found you a way out,” he growls. “I found Nicky one. You’re just too stubborn.”

“Reminds me of someone else I know.” Aaron rolls his eyes, and shoves past into Neil’s office.

Andrew watches him go, but moments later, he emerges into the bright sunlight again.

“He says he just wants you.” Aaron shakes his head, and wanders off to speak to another crew member.

Scoffing, Andrew steps into Neil’s quarters and shuts the door behind himself. It’s a large room, well-decorated with maroon carpets and dark furniture; Neil’s bed is set into the left wall, and he is leaning against a gilded mahogany desk at the far end of the room. As Andrew gets closer, he catches sight of a slow-spinning globe atop the desk, and a small pile of gold coins scattered across the wood. Neil is tossing one up and down in the palm of his hand, but he stops when Andrew steps up to his side.

“Hey,” Neil says, throwing the coin back onto the pile with a soft _clink._ “I know this is a lot.”

"I don't think I can do this," Andrew whispers, leaning heavily on Neil's desk. "Fuck, Josten, I can't do this. They're kids. I can't do this."

"Andrew—"

"I can't take in sixty-three orphans. Neil—"

"Okay, look, mate." He grabs Andrew's arms and shakes him roughly. "We just need to get them someplace safe and take care of the men blackmailing me, get them off our backs. You don’t know anybody?"

"Nicky." Andrew remembers suddenly. "Nicky will take them."

“Nicky?” Neil looks surprised. “Aaron’s cousin?”

"Yeah. He runs an orphanage in New York City. I can escort you, but then I'm going to have to sail back to Havana: I need the city under control again.”

“And I need to deal with the rest of the Moriyamas,” Neil agrees. “What are we supposed to do after that?”

“After that, you pay me, pirate.”

Neil laughs at this. “I see you haven’t changed.”

They share a quiet moment: Andrew can hear the crew laughing and shouting outside, and he can feel the Black Sunrise bobbing slowly up and down on the waves, but here, in this room, there is absolute stillness. Neil shifts and straightens, then takes Andrew’s hand and rubs his thumb over Andrew’s dry knuckles. When he next speaks, his words are as warm and sweet as the honeyed sunlight spilling over the floor.

“We’re going to be okay, you know.”

Andrew watches their hands move together, and gives Neil’s knuckles a little squeeze.

“People like us always are.”

“That’s not strictly true.”

“Rich, coming from a liar.”

“You’ve got me there.” Neil laughs, eyes crinkling, but he doesn’t let go of Andrew’s hand. “Can I at least buy you a drink after all of this?”

"To apologise for destroying my hold on Havana in one evening?"

"To apologise for betraying you." Neil hesitates, and Andrew thinks he's holding his breath. He's really upset about this.

"Yes," Andrew decides eventually, because he likes Neil: he really, really does. This is the man who had shown mercy to his brother, who had lied to protect sixty-three children, who had given them clothes and shelter and probably more than he could afford. Perhaps Andrew doesn’t hate pirates so much. Not this one, anyway. "Yes, you can buy me a drink, as long as it’s not that watered-down piss that pirates like to call beer.”

Neil laughs again, and Andrew thinks that he would kill ten, twenty, a hundred marks just to keep seeing his eyes glow like that. Aaron had wanted a way out, and Andrew can’t help wondering if Neil is his. Renee is ready to take over the Order: she always has been. If Neil asks Andrew to sail the seas for a little while, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to say no. His story has been told in Havana, and Andrew won’t forget his roots, but the rest of the world is waiting for them, and he has a new target.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, a massive thank you to fornavn and leahlisabeth, whose art and dedication really made this fic come alive. It was really great to work with them and I can't put into words how thankful I am so please go and show them your love!


End file.
